|| 'B' (If I should have a daughter) || Hiroshima || Hands || Postcards || Extended Development || Montauk || Forest Fires || Dreaming Boy ||
|| The Type || Beginning, Middle and End || Repetition || Teeth || An Origin Story || When Love Arrives ||
|| The Type || Beginning, Middle and End || Repetition || Teeth || An Origin Story || When Love Arrives ||
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I am a city girl to my core. The first time my parents took me outside of New York City to visit my uncle in New Jersey, I was standing on the front step of his lovely suburban home when a fast-moving shadow caused my three-year old heart to damn near beat out my chest and I shouted, “That’s the biggest rat I’ve ever seen!” My uncle calmly responded, “Sweetie, that’s a cat.” To which I shot back, “Oh yeah? Well what’s it doing outside then?”
My parents realized there are some things you just couldn’t learn in New York City. So, every summer we migrated out to Montauk, Long Island, the eastern-most point of New York City. My father only got two weeks off of work a year, so when August rolled around we packed everything we could into the company van and followed that yellow spotted line of highway out until we couldn’t go any farther.
This is where I learned to swim. Where I heard the word “****” for the first time from a bunch of surfers down by the beach. How to ride a bike on rainy afternoons swerving around puddles. How to drive a car in the hardware store parking lot. How to kiss a boy, with sand between my toes.
Time goes to Montauk to take a break. It loosens its belt, takes a seat on the front porch next to my father and his Weber grill; it putters around the kitchen while my mother is kneading the dough for her homemade sourdough bread, and chuckles when it catches her talking out loud to herself, telling no one in particular that, “We should roast peaches tonight. I’ll bet oatmeal would be delicious tomorrow morning if we roasted some peaches tonight. Time stalls in Montaulk.
I am seven years old, my little brother is three. He splashes in the baby pool while I brave the full-length olympic size one by myself. Chubby in my one piece, my thighs brush against each other as I tread water in the shallow end. I look up to see an older girl, perfect in her bikini, tall and tan and probably on her way to meet her handsome, Prince Charming boyfriend, she glows as she glides past me, tosses her hair like she has all the answers and I wonder if I’ll ever be a woman like that. That summer, I learned how to wish on stars.
I am twelve years old, my little brother is eight. He can surf better than I can, and I hate it. I wait until he and all the other surfers are done for the day before paddling my fat sponge of a board out past the breakers, there’s no one left in the water. I tuck my legs up, the setting sun makes the water grow golden. That summer, I learned how to be alone.
I am sixteen, my little brother is twelve and at the beach, I am reading magazines on the couch when my mother appears in the living room holding her laptop, the only computer we have in the house. My little brother has downloaded his first porn video to the desktop and she is trying to figure out what should be done about it. That night at dinner, there is no mention of it at the dining room table, but later when I go to check my email, I discover that she has made a new folder on the desktop, labeled it “PK’s Porn” and left it there for him to find. That summer, I learned how to love my parents.
There are some things you cannot learn in New York City. There are some places where fishnets do not mean stockings, where the learning happens in between moments, like after a wave passes and you break the surface gasping for air.
I am twenty-two. The landmarks are the same, same stretch of beach, same hardware store parking lot. Some of the names have changed, the pool hasn’t. I make my way to the shallow end, wade in slow, in Montauk, I can take my time. I look up to see a little girl, chubby in her one piece watching me as I walk into the water, her eyes as big as summer tomatoes and just as red from all the chlorine rubbing. I almost speak to her. But before I can, there is a splash behind me. A woman well into her fifties, chubby in her one piece, has cannon-balled into the deep end, she comes up coughing and flailing, water in her nose, she comes up laughing. The little girl giggles, and me? I am laughing too.
My parents realized there are some things you just couldn’t learn in New York City. So, every summer we migrated out to Montauk, Long Island, the eastern-most point of New York City. My father only got two weeks off of work a year, so when August rolled around we packed everything we could into the company van and followed that yellow spotted line of highway out until we couldn’t go any farther.
This is where I learned to swim. Where I heard the word “****” for the first time from a bunch of surfers down by the beach. How to ride a bike on rainy afternoons swerving around puddles. How to drive a car in the hardware store parking lot. How to kiss a boy, with sand between my toes.
Time goes to Montauk to take a break. It loosens its belt, takes a seat on the front porch next to my father and his Weber grill; it putters around the kitchen while my mother is kneading the dough for her homemade sourdough bread, and chuckles when it catches her talking out loud to herself, telling no one in particular that, “We should roast peaches tonight. I’ll bet oatmeal would be delicious tomorrow morning if we roasted some peaches tonight. Time stalls in Montaulk.
I am seven years old, my little brother is three. He splashes in the baby pool while I brave the full-length olympic size one by myself. Chubby in my one piece, my thighs brush against each other as I tread water in the shallow end. I look up to see an older girl, perfect in her bikini, tall and tan and probably on her way to meet her handsome, Prince Charming boyfriend, she glows as she glides past me, tosses her hair like she has all the answers and I wonder if I’ll ever be a woman like that. That summer, I learned how to wish on stars.
I am twelve years old, my little brother is eight. He can surf better than I can, and I hate it. I wait until he and all the other surfers are done for the day before paddling my fat sponge of a board out past the breakers, there’s no one left in the water. I tuck my legs up, the setting sun makes the water grow golden. That summer, I learned how to be alone.
I am sixteen, my little brother is twelve and at the beach, I am reading magazines on the couch when my mother appears in the living room holding her laptop, the only computer we have in the house. My little brother has downloaded his first porn video to the desktop and she is trying to figure out what should be done about it. That night at dinner, there is no mention of it at the dining room table, but later when I go to check my email, I discover that she has made a new folder on the desktop, labeled it “PK’s Porn” and left it there for him to find. That summer, I learned how to love my parents.
There are some things you cannot learn in New York City. There are some places where fishnets do not mean stockings, where the learning happens in between moments, like after a wave passes and you break the surface gasping for air.
I am twenty-two. The landmarks are the same, same stretch of beach, same hardware store parking lot. Some of the names have changed, the pool hasn’t. I make my way to the shallow end, wade in slow, in Montauk, I can take my time. I look up to see a little girl, chubby in her one piece watching me as I walk into the water, her eyes as big as summer tomatoes and just as red from all the chlorine rubbing. I almost speak to her. But before I can, there is a splash behind me. A woman well into her fifties, chubby in her one piece, has cannon-balled into the deep end, she comes up coughing and flailing, water in her nose, she comes up laughing. The little girl giggles, and me? I am laughing too.
|| 'B' (If I should have a daughter) || Hiroshima || Hands || Postcards || Extended Development || Montauk || Forest Fires || Dreaming Boy ||
|| The Type || Beginning, Middle and End || Repetition || Teeth || An Origin Story || When Love Arrives ||
|| The Type || Beginning, Middle and End || Repetition || Teeth || An Origin Story || When Love Arrives ||